


we die with the dying; we are born with the dead

by congratsyouvegrownasoul



Series: the only hope; or else despair [3]
Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Fire Nation Royal Family, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Iroh POV, Kid Fic, Ozai is a jerk, This wound up being more Iroh-centric than I had expected
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-09
Updated: 2017-04-09
Packaged: 2018-10-16 20:31:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10578945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/congratsyouvegrownasoul/pseuds/congratsyouvegrownasoul
Summary: “In dark times, there’s no shame in tears.”Iroh returns to the capitol, and sees his brother and Zuko for the first time since Ozai's coronation.





	

Iroh feels ridiculous, kneeling before his brother in the Firelord’s throne room. It doesn’t help that his best clothes are too big for him—Iroh has always been stocky, and in recent years he’s gotten thick around the middle, but he’s lost weight in the month since his son’s death, and the fabric shifts around uncomfortably.

It is the position itself that is more uncomfortable, though, as well as unexpected. Even though Iroh has never particularly wanted to be Firelord himself, he’d always assumed he’d succeed his father, and been comfortable going with the flow of destiny. His own ambitions had been more targeted towards battle prowess than politics.

Now, after he lost Ba Sing Se—more importantly, after he lost _Lu Ten—_ he feels devoid of ambition at all. Confronted with his little brother’s barely concealed gloating, he also feels a bit sick to his stomach.  If the rumors are true, Ozai’s wife went missing the night their father died, yet Ozai seems completely secure and content in his ascension, without a spot of worry or mourning.

Iroh finds himself wondering if one of the rumors he’d heard as he traversed the outskirts of the Fire Nation—that Ozai had killed Ursa—is true as well. Once again, he brushes the thought away, dismissing it as scurrilous gossip, unwilling to believe that his brother would do such a thing.

More probably, Ozai will let nothing taint the joy of his newly realized ambitions, not even the disappearance of the mother of his children, whom he had loved, Iroh thought, in his own possessive way.

He worries, sometimes, for the Fire Nation under Ozai. His brother is all unfettered power and burning desires—he knows nothing of compassion and, for all his courtly etiquette, nothing of true grace.

When Iroh is sent out of the throne room, finally released from his brother’s scorching gaze, he breathes a sigh of relief. He leans against the wall to steady himself, finding that his legs are trembling slightly.

In the dusky corridor outside of the throne room, he hears Zuko before he sees him—the soft thunder of his small feet racing down the hallway. Zuko doesn’t call out to him, probably anxious about disturbing his father within the Firelord’s inner sanctum.

When he gets close, Zuko screeches to a halt, panting. He’s wearing white mourning clothes to honor his grandfather, with elaborate golden embroidery befitting the new crown prince. The light color makes him appear to glow in the dark corridor.

When Iroh had become crown prince years earlier, he was already a grown man, but he remembers little Ozai strutting around in his own slightly less fine clothes like a show ostrich-pony. Zuko, on the other hand, looks uncomfortable in his new finery, scratching nervously at his high collar.

Zuko takes a moment before he speaks, closing his eyes to calm down from his sprinting, and then bows formally to Iroh, solemn-faced.

“It is good to see you, Uncle.”

The phrase sounds courtly and scripted. Zuko pauses, biting his lip, and then continues on in his natural voice, tinged with real sorrow.

“I’m so sorry about Lu Ten.”

Impulsively, he darts forward, throwing his arms around Iroh. Iroh receives the hug gratefully, lifting Zuko half off of his feet with his enthusiasm.

“Ah, Zuko, you’re getting so tall.”

He remembers this stage from Lu Ten, the way children grow like weeds and suddenly, one day, become young men and women. Zuko isn’t quite there yet, thank the spirits.

As Zuko steps back, Iroh searches his face, looking for the bright innocence in his eyes and seeing something clouded and raw. He feels a pang of grief touch his heart—a new grief, a fresh wound compounding the sorrows he’s carried with him from Ba Sing Se.

“Thank you, Zuko. And I am sorry about your mother.”

Zuko nods, glancing down at his feet, almost shamefaced.

“I miss her so much,” he whispers, almost as if he’s afraid someone—Ozai?—will overhear.

Iroh reaches out again, folding Zuko into a softer hug.

“I know, I know. Of course you do.”

Zuko sniffs, and hastily buries his face in Iroh’s chest, shoulders quivering. Iroh wipes at his own eyes and pats him on the back.

Iroh remembers when Ursa had first come to the palace, before she’d gotten used to the way court worked. The simple daughter of a provincial magistrate, she’d stuck out in the capitol at first.

Lu Ten had been the closest in age to her out of the royal family, another teenager just a few years her junior. Iroh had encouraged his son to befriend Ozai’s pretty, kind young wife. The two of them used to sit out in the gardens, under a weeping willow tree, and play pai sho. Iroh had often joined them.

When Ursa was pregnant with Zuko, she had let Lu Ten touch her belly, bracing his hands against her to let him feel the baby kick. Ozai hadn’t liked that at all. He’d complained to Iroh about teaching his son to respect his elders—that Ursa was _his_ wife, and it was _his_ baby.

The next time they’d gathered to play pai sho, they made a table of four, with Ozai sitting dourly next to Ursa, glaring around at everyone else. Ursa had made cheerful conversation, pasting over the awkward spaces in between the four of them.

That was the way she was, Iroh thinks sadly—always the peacemaker. The way she _is,_ he corrects himself. Ursa may be gone, but she is not, as far as he knows, dead.

In the throne room, Ozai had referred to their father’s _passing,_ using the courtly euphemism for death. Iroh has grown to hate the phrase. It feels like a lie.

Lu Ten did not _pass,_ did not slip away peacefully in bed like Azulon had. Iroh’s son _died,_ died gasping and alone in the Earth Kingdom mud, surrounded by the dead and dying of two armies. Iroh was not even there, could not hold him and comfort him. He was still leading their army, on the front lines, unaware that in the wake of battle behind them, his life was falling apart.

Iroh holds tighter to Zuko, remembering the feeling of another small boy in his arms, years ago. He forces the memories away—they’re not fair to Zuko.

After a moment, Zuko pulls away from him, tear tracks on his cheeks. He looks a bit embarrassed—he’s getting old enough to feel as if he’s too proud to cry, Iroh thinks.

“In dark times, there’s no shame in tears,” Iroh reassures him.

Zuko nods, giving him a shy half-smile.

“Uncle, do you…do you want to see me fight with the knife you gave me? I think I’m getting pretty good.”

Little boys, always playing at soldiers. Iroh feels his heart grow heavier. He imagines Zuko, a few years older, those bright eyes peering out from underneath the angry spikes of a Fire Nation-issued helmet.

Iroh shakes his head.

“Maybe later, Zuko. You know, right now I feel more like a walk in the gardens. Do you want to come along?”

Zuko nods earnestly, and slips his hand into Iroh’s.


End file.
